Room with a beau

“Where were you gone...? I was so restless for a week. Don’t do this again pls.”

This was clearly the most impatient declaration from Travis. His wry, sardonic humour seemed to be on a holiday. Caught unawares by the urgency in his words — triggered by a weeklong separation — I took a big gulp of breath and water. Like a cat about to attack an aquarium, I studied the surroundings before I gave him a hug and a kiss. “Sorry! This won’t happen again.” I tried to comfort Travis in every way I could. It seemed to work. “Promise?” he asked. I sealed the deal with another kiss.

It was the most romantic Monday ever. Travis had entered my world exactly a month before that. Half-Indian, he was from Pennsylvania, US. He loved his sister Trisha, his pet hamster, his Mazda and the exotic herbs in his mother’s kitchen garden. I was in Chennai — officially on a one-year course in journalism, but more engrossed in savouring the liberties that come with staying away from family for the first time. In the process of enjoying freedoms newly found, I bumped into Travis one afternoon. He stood out in a room full of strangers. I didn’t know how to begin a conversation. “Go on, say hello, he won’t mind,” advised a more worldly-wise friend.

What began as an awkward “hi-hello-how was your day” conversation — thanks to uncharacteristic coyness — progressed to more interesting areas of discussion: Travel, movies, books, food, cars, foreplay and fetishes. Overwhelmed by the sensual appeal of chocolate-coated strawberries, I missed an important detail of the Travis tale: That we were in the same room, sititng across an awkward table in the middle of the college computer lab. Travis was not Travis. He was no American citizen. He had never seen a hamster. And there was no sister named Trisha. Travis was a classmate. And I a chat-room clod.

Without going into how I discovered the real identity of Travis, let me explain why I am boring you with details of my cyber flirtations. Because I am mourning the demise of the 20-year-old Yahoo! Messenger — the gateway to a borderless world sans tickets, passport, visa or bank balance. All you needed was a modem, an internet connection, and a lab assistant you could intimidate at the slightest sign of service disruption.

In 2000, as I found myself crushed between a grid sheet and the constant pressure of producing headlines in the active voice, Yahoo’s messenger service promised deliverance from the drudgery that my parents had paid through their nose for. The click of a button meant quick escape, to be transported into a space where hordes of Travises awaited impressionable Enigmas. The internet service provider made brisk business while I emptied my soul and more into words that flew off the keyboard.

I described nightclothes I never had, I spoke about holiday experiences my family could not afford, I narrated celebrity encounters that I can still only dream of... And when (very rarely though) I was at a loss for words to type, I made good use of the emoticons that Yahoo! had carefully put together for speechlessness. Beyond the benign smiles and chuckles, I could wink at strangers without fear of parental censure. I could blow kisses at them. I could bare a throbbing red heart. And, if need be, I could shed a tear or two in order to garner sympathy for a period cramp or an aching tooth.

I was not the only addict in college though. All around me, juggling between Napster and doltish video games were Yahoo! chat regulars. While waiting for a computer, I would often sit at the table in the lab and study my classmates absorbed in the activity. A dead giveaway would be a smile hanging by the corner of the lips — barely there but meaningful. Frantic chewing of nails indicated pockets of turbulence — it could be anything from a chat contact threatening to block you for being nosey about the négligée to someone in the French Riviera planning to visit the condo you have built in the air. Hand over the mouth (in the Miss Universe fashion) was for things going smooth, and hand on the head meant it was time to find a new partner.

The end of the course meant a break in my chat-room escapades. The only computer I had access to after leaving college belonged to the Jurassic era. The internet was an alien concept to the device I used to produce pages for one of the oldest English-language dailies in India. And in the office I joined next, the only computer with an internet connection was monopolised by those with designations that merited business cards. Given the pecking order of the newsroom, lowly trainees and subs could only reminisce about the virtual rooms they had left behind.

Then arrived the time when the internet penetrated every computer in every office. With multiple email IDs — Yahoo!, Hotmail, Lycos and whatnot — came more chat options. But none like the rooms that Yahoo! had led me to. I knew everyone on my messenger — colleagues, friends, pesky cousins, avoidable aunts and so on. The advent of Google Hangouts has streamlined work-related communication (“Close Page 15, please!” or “Please change the caption on Page 5”) — something I am grateful for — but there is nothing in it that allows me to escape me. Maybe that’s why I still remember Travis.